We’re all dying.  That should not come as a revelation to anyone–if so, sorry to be your “disillusioner,” to use a Mullism.  (Mullism: n.  1. A word spawned by children’s fantasy author Brandon Mull; 2. A childish linguistic distortion that is by circumstance accepted when reason suggests it should not be; 3. The act of making up words and getting away with it (see phrase “Pulled a Shakespeare”); 4. Buying a house above a prison, realizing this may not be the very best residence, and then moving when you become a NYT best-seller OR Being or having the bearing of Brandon Mull.)  Harold Bloom has theorized that all our artistic endeavors are, at their root, an attempt to confront and deal with our own mortality.  Put more eloquently, “I can feel this body dying all around me!” (qtd. in Beagle, “The Last Unicorn”, Pg. one or the other). 

It’s either great fortune or a merciful kindness that we generally don’t feel ourselves dying (unlike unicorns turned into human princesses).  Barring terrible disease or a horrible accident, we’re able to keep the illusion that because I exist this moment I will certain exist in the next and all following as well.  Doing stuff helps us maintain this illusion.  It doesn’t matter much what stuff we do, as long as it’s distracting and keeps us busy.  Even TV can work (though it speeds up the pace of cerebral death).  In fact, there’s only one thing that makes our own continual passing away tangible: waiting.  Waiting is, by definition, a lack of distracting stuff in the present, and thus makes us aware of our slow degeneration.

This is perhaps the toughest thing about being a writer and seeking to publish.  Even a mediocre writer who’s serious about breaking into print will have to become a master waiter.  And the better you are at waiting, the more aware you become of your own decaying state.  To be blunt, if you want to be a writer, you’d better be okay with the idea that a lot of your life is going to be spent twiddling your thumbs while waiting for something you really want to happen (that probably won’t happen), during which time you’ll become painfully aware of how said life is ticking away with every single twiddle of your digits.    

I hate waiting.  (As does Inigo, right, ForeverTeal?) 

In my case, I am waiting to hear about a proposal I sent out nearly four months ago.  The publisher who is considering it lists a response time of six to eight weeks.  I’m now going on fifteen.  Exceeding a publisher’s response time is good.  It doesn’t take long to send a form rejection or quickly scribble, “This stinks, and we would greatly appreciate not being afflicted by your prose in the future.  We did not relish the dry heaves that accompanied our reading of this catastrophe.”  Not hearing back quickly (assuming they received your manuscript) means, at the least, you’ve earned respect and, likely, legitimate consideration by someone in the house.  The longer the wait, the more respect you’re probably accumulating.  All this is good.

The waiting itself is not good, unless you find dying nice and slow good.  I do not.  As I sit around twiddling my thumbs and fighting the urge to bite them off, I remind myself, “Yes, you’re waiting, and yes, you’re dying, and yes, you feel it…but it means they like your book!” 

If they like it enough to publish it, the waiting (and dying) will be worth it.  If not, my wait is over and I’ll submit it to new places, petitioning once more for the privilege of waiting.

Life bites.

Sorry for the morbid post.  You have to do these things occasionally as a professional author.  Contractual obligations, you understand.

Tomorrow, something constructive: an answer to Scarlet Knight’s question.